


Stargazing

by Marbowswan



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur being a dumb oblivious bitch for five hours, Arthur really likes stargazing, Getting Together, Homophobia, John being very clearly gay all the time, Light Angst, Like lots of smoking, Lots of romantic moments where they look into the stars, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Porn With Plot, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26107228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marbowswan/pseuds/Marbowswan
Summary: “You okay, Marston?” He asked, knowing John would never answer with the truth. He was a skilled liar, they both were, but the question itself set up for a lie. None of them ever were, not really. They could hide their past with as many vices as they could, but nothing could destroy it completely. Not even the west.John ducked his head as if he was thinking over the question. Arthur knew he wasn’t. “Okay enough, I suppose. You?”John must’ve been a bigger fool than Arthur first took him for. He sighed, leaning back down into the grass and staring back into the stars. “Fine enough, same as you.”Arthur hardly spoke to John much, let alone robbed an armored banking coach with him, but that’s exactly where he found himself days after a mostly-failed bank robbery with the gang.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 84





	1. A Stagecoach

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for some homophobia near the end of the chapter.

It was after a failed bank robbery somewhere in Illinois or Missouri or Arkansas, Arthur couldn’t remember the states any better than he knew the names of the towns they rolled into, guns flaring. It was somewhere slightly hot and slightly sticky, that he remembered. Somewhere populated enough to be considered civilization, but not enough to keep out a small gang of battered men and women. Somewhere where they could hide in the damp woods, just settled enough to be considered a camp, but not enough to inhibit them from fleeing at the first sign of trouble. Trouble always seemed to follow them.

The robbery itself had started out simple. Arthur was a full-fledged adult-- nearly thirty-- and he’d been robbing since he could carry a revolver. It was supposed to be just enough money to carry them out west. A couple thousand at the least, Dutch had assured. Arthur wasn’t going to argue with the motive or the plan or the outcome, whatever it came down to. He longed for the freedom of the west as much as anyone else in the gang. Open sky, dusty fields, peace. Dutch had been raving over the prospects of moving somewhere quiet with the gang for years. Maybe a decade.

So they saddled, rode to the bank. Dutch and Hosea led, Arthur following, John sidled next to him as the Callenders galloped around back. Everything followed smoothly up until they reached the town. Lawmen were everywhere, Arthur could see it with a trained eye, as could Hosea. The town had been more secure than they’d first pictured, but Dutch kept with his plan. They stormed the bank, made off with only a thousand before bullets rained inside and they were trapped. They shot their way out, as they always did, but not before Arthur suffered a nasty bullet wound to the shoulder and another at his thigh. They patched him up well enough at camp, but he was still irritated. Another bounty at their heads, another scar to his body, another failed attempt at freedom.

Arthur vented his frustration in smoking, drinking, journaling-- but mostly staring. Each night he found himself a few paces from camp at a darkened lake surrounded by boulders, massive ones, where he laid down and stared at the sky. He stared until his eyes hurt and the stars became blurry and his cigarette became ash under him. Thinking of nothing, because there was nothing to think of, because this was his life and nothing else and it was foolish to ask for anything more-- to entertain the idea of a different existence or a greater purpose. He was nothing to the sky and the sky was nothing to him.

That’s where he found himself when John approached him three days after the bank. A cigarette was poised at his lips with his right hand, his other arm serving as a rest for his head against the cool surface of the mud and grass. His feet were crossed, eyes squinted at the stars spilled over the void in front of him. He hardly registered the sound of footsteps, even with his sharp hearing— his focus was on something larger than himself or anyone else around him. The only time he tore his gaze away is when John sat next to him, arms curled around his legs, holding himself. Even sitting next to each other, neither of them spoke. Trees whispered, a wolf howled somewhere in the distance. Arthur inhaled his cigarette before stubbing it into the dirt and lifting himself from the ground.

“You okay, Marston?” He asked, knowing John would never answer with the truth. He was a skilled liar, they both were, but the question itself set up for a lie. None of them ever were, not really. They could hide their past with as many vices as they could, but nothing could destroy it completely. Not even the west.

John ducked his head as if he was thinking over the question. Arthur knew he wasn’t. “Okay enough, I suppose. You?”

John must’ve been a bigger fool than Arthur first took him for. He sighed, leaning back down into the grass and staring back into the stars. “Fine enough, same as you.”

Arthur could see John’s fingers twitching impatiently, like he was full to bursting. He almost chuckled at the sight. John was a man now, there was no doubt, but he still had the restless discontent of a small child. He’d mature soon, Arthur could tell. Probably even sooner than Arthur had at his age. Hell, he still hadn’t matured much, even after having a child of his own. Nothing seemed to quell the anger that simmered underneath his every movement, the anger that now had him exhaling from his nose and shaking his head slow.

“Just spit it out. I know you’re just dyin’ to say something. Unless you came here for a swim.”

John’s nostrils flared as he turned his head toward Arthur. “I swear, Arthur Morgan, I come here to have one conversation and you’re already gettin’ on my damn nerves.”

“C’mon, you ain’t that upset. I’m teasin’. You know I am.” Arthur could already feel himself softening. John had that sort of effect on him, oddly enough. “Now, tell me. Why’d you come bothering me down here?”

There was that same restlessness in his fingers, tapping against his shins. John averted his eyes and looked into the sky for the first time, his pupils reflecting speckles of light. His hair, most of which was done up behind him with some sort of tie, fell behind his ear as Arthur got a clearer view of his face. He’d aged beautifully, all sharp and strong features aside from those brown eyes of his. Those were soft. Dutch used to say that the only reason he’d hardly been caught stealing as a child was because of those eyes and how innocent-seeming they were. With the night sky shining against them, Arthur was inclined to agree.

“Do you think we’re really gonna have it? The west, I mean. Even after all we’ve gone through, all the damn robberies we keep messin’ up. I mean, there ain’t no way Dutch is stoppin’ now. And all them people we keep saving… You think that’s gonna happen when we get to the west, or do you think it’ll just be us for ourselves?” John paused, like he wanted to continue, but he faltered and lowered his gaze instead. Strands of hair fell back in front of his eyes. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

The truth was, Arthur wasn’t sure either. He knew Dutch wouldn’t quit as long as his mind was sharp. He’d keep progressing towards his goal with the strength and relentlessness of a predator stalking its prey. Every time he pounced and missed, he would only grow more tireless, he was sure of that. But as for the idea itself-- the prospects? He was lost. Nothing was certain, that Arthur did know, and he would stick with Dutch until his dying breath. He provided stability, as unrealistic as his goals might be at times. Him, Hosea, and the rest-- none of it was guaranteed, but he’d cling onto it for as long as he could. 

Arthur grabbed the hand that kept twitching and stared into John fiercely. “Stay with us, Marston. Help us try. All we can do is try. You and I know.”

John let out a shuttered breath before he gripped Arthur’s hand in turn. “I know. I know.”

They looked back into the sky and held on until the stars became blurry and their hands were cramped.

______

Ever since that night, John was staring at Arthur strangely. Arthur was somewhat used to being stared at like he was missing a tooth or five, he was even used to being stared at in fear as he stalked into general stores and saloons, but John’s stare was something entirely different. It was a gentle confusion, done with that soft gaze of his, that had him averting said gaze every time Arthur caught him. Even that morning, when Arthur saddled onto Boadicea to do some hunting for Pearson, John’s eyes were following him. Following him everywhere.

Arthur should’ve expected John to come riding up next to him as soon as he galloped a few steps away, then. He should’ve expected it, but he had been too focused on the path as he trailed a herd of deer that disappeared into the woods. As soon as he made a move to draw his bow, the footsteps appeared behind him.

Arthur inhaled slow, hands dropping from the bow at his back. “John.”

“Sorry.” He said immediately, his horse’s footsteps quieting against the path. He looked sheepish enough, his hair still pulled back into that half-bun and his own bow slung over his body. “Wanted to get out. I needed somethin’ quiet.”

“Yeah, so did I.” Arthur muttered angrily, hands dropping to grip his reins tighter. He wanted something he didn’t have to think about, something that was so second nature that it felt like his mind was hardly moving. Draw the bow, release, skin the animal. Precise, careful, carry the body and stow the carcass, ride to Pearson. Simple. Easy. Maybe he’d find a rabbit while he was at it. A few squirrels, maybe he’d even be lucky and stumble across a fox or a wolf-- something with a soft pelt that he could make use of. He wasn’t expecting John, with the closest thing to a smile he’d seen in months, to follow him eagerly. Maybe he hadn’t matured as much as he first thought.

“It’s easier this way. We can take back two deer for the camp. Besides, I’ve hardly hunted with you in months.” John sighed, guiding his horse to stand beside Arthur. “I’ve missed you.”

Arthur bit his tongue, knowing he’d spill a retort from his lips if he didn’t keep his mouth shut. _Like we ain’t talked last night?_ Truthfully, what they’d discussed was hardly talking even if it had been the most they’d spoken in years. They were close enough, everyone in the gang was, but Arthur was Dutch’s right hand. He did most of the hunting, most of the fishing, half of the shooting, he was so damn busy sometimes that his feet had forgotten how to be sore. John was busy as well, but he’d only just grown. He didn’t know what it was like to be out doing things for the camp constantly, though he was old enough to have been drunk plenty of times, it seemed. When Arthur was picking him up from a saloon, his body slumped over his shoulder, that’s when they talked. 

Arthur clicked his tongue, urging Boadicea forward. “C’mon, then.”

They rode for a few minutes before they came across another herd, this one with a few healthy-looking bucks that would make for a decent take. Arthur drew his bow out first, John following after, and they both nodded before they released the arrows in sync. Arthur’s reached its target, killing the buck neatly, while John’s only grazed its neck. 

As it collapsed to the ground and called out in pain, John winced. “Shit. Like I said, been a while.” 

Arthur only shook his head as he dismounted from Boadicea and unsheathed his hunting knife. “I’ll take care of him. You go get the other one.”

As Arthur came closer, the buck-- a six-point by the looks of him-- thrashed even further on the ground. He tread carefully until he was kneeling on the grass next to him, hand on his stomach, watching him bleed from the wound at his neck. He sighed, gripped his knife tighter and plunged it into the animal’s heart. 

“I’m sorry, boy, I am.” He whispered, wiping the blood from his hands on his jeans. He waited for the thing to bleed out further before he finally gripped his knife again, skinning the buck and disposing its hide-- it wasn’t any good thanks to John’s missed shot. As for its meat, Arthur kept its cuts in his satchel to hand over to Pearson once they were back at camp. It’s carcass was too bloody to make any use of, unless he drained it before he saddled up, and he wasn’t exactly in the mind to spend even more time with John. He simply wiped his knife with his shirt, sheathing it back into its cover, and walked back over to John-- who had the other buck tied to the back of his horse.

He still looked a little sheepish, and he was still staring at Arthur in that same way he had before, except this time worse. His eyes were darkened with… something. Arthur turned his head as something in him went hot. Jesus, he wasn’t thinking straight.

“You okay, Morgan?”

“Fine. We goin’ back home?” He grunted out, mounting onto Boadicea and ushering her forward. He asked the words like a question, but he meant them as a statement. He’d spent enough time with John for that day, hell, for the whole year. He never realized how little they’d spoken since he had become a man. 

The ride back was short and easy. Arthur dismounted, handing the deer cuts to Pearson for the stew, while John carried the carcass over his shoulder. He grunted as he dropped it at Pearson’s table, a smirk playing at his lips.

John looked like mischief personified, his eyes dancing as he glanced over to Arthur, whose stomach dropped. In those moments, where John seemed childish enough to shrink several feet, Arthur was stuck between feeling his own form of pride and some deep-set shame. Both ate at him, and he was never sure why they came up with every smile, laugh, and tease that came out of John.

In general, he didn’t think much on his feelings. As much as the girls at camp made fun of him for his journal, he barely thought on what he put down. It was all speculation and observation of his world, never himself. Nothing made sense to him, so he never assigned meaning to much. Life was too short and too cruel to ponder on anything for too long.

So, in that moment, he pushed away his mixed feelings of pride and guilt. Just as he did, John grinned up at him. “Let’s go drinking.”

“Okay, now, you’re askin’ too much from me-”

“Really? You don’t want a drink?”

“I don’t want a drink with someone who gets drunk enough to forget his own name, no. You remember last time?”

That seemed to quiet John a good deal. He tilted his head, as if trying to recall what had happened. Arthur remembered all too vividly. He had been sent out, maybe for the fifth time that winter, to look for John at the town’s saloon. He was there, of course, drunk as anything, beer in his hand as he tapped some man on the shoulder, whispered something in his ear. Arthur barely had time to intervene before the man was throwing his entire weight onto John, knocking both of them into the floor. Glass shattered, a few men shouted down at the other man, a couple women screamed. John was locked into a chokehold, eyes wide and fearful, before Arthur threw the man off of him and threatened him sufficiently. 

“It weren’t pretty, sure.” John finally muttered, cheeks suddenly flushed in red. He dug the toe of his boot into the ground as if trying to bury himself. Arthur had never seen him so shameful.

“Well, see there? It ain’t a good idea, that much is clear.” Arthur said with finality. It wasn’t like he was opposed to the idea, but John had been spending so much time staring and speaking with him that it was beginning to put him in an irritable mood. He couldn’t figure the damn kid out, that much was sure, and he didn’t want to. Going through his days, providing for the gang, being on his own-- that was enough. 

Arthur gave a decisive nod, leaving John quiet as they both went into separate tents.

______

“Let’s rob a stage. Together.”

John said the words to him with confidence on an early morning a few days after their short hunting trip. Arthur had been taking a break from tying up a few loose ends with the nearby town-- asking around for the next-nearest sign of civilization, making plans to move up north, pocketing enough money to get them by for a few more days. Their current camp, set deep in the forest and covered by that large bouldered lake, had been secluded but time-sensitive. After the bank robbery they were dead men walking-- the first person who recognized a bounty poster of theirs would inevitably find their hideout. That would inevitably bring a shootout, and after the robbery from a few weeks ago, another potential wound and more wasted bullets was the last thing Arthur needed. 

So, sitting on a log by the camp’s fire with a cigarette balanced between his fingers, he found himself beginning to refuse. He was too focused on getting them out of there, not bringing Dutch anymore trouble. They needed a new place to stay, somewhere even more secure. A town with a little less law. Asking around and scrounging up cash the easy way, that was what Arthur needed to manage.

But as soon as he shook his head, John shoved a paper in his hands. “It’s a good lead, promise. Goin’ right past Metdeer Falls. A banking wagon with a small take, almost no security.”

“Seems too good.” Arthur sighed, inspecting the crumpled sheet. It was torn at the edges, John’s light scrawl detailing notes he must’ve taken in a saloon back at town. Arthur took a drag from his cigarette, then tapped ash off the end impatiently. “Who told you ‘bout it?”

“No one. Overhead some bankmen talking.” John was grinning from ear-to-ear as he sat across from Arthur, staring into the campfire set between them. “It’s comin’ tomorrow at noon. You’re the best shot we have and… I’m not tryin’ to burden Dutch or Hosea.”

He was smart, Arthur had to admit. If either of them knew that John, not even twenty, was taking a stagecoach alone-- they’d have some words. Arthur they trusted, but John was a wild case at times. Those soft eyes turned dark and furious with the slightest setback, he knew the look all too well. He’d been a skinny, nearly feral child when he was first taken in. Sometimes, in spontaneous moments like the one he was stuck in now, his eyes would flash and Arthur’s heart would skip and jackhammer against his chest-- brought back to six years ago when John nearly thrashed against the idea of staying in their gang. 

Those same eyes flashed, though not with the same danger they usually held. Instead they seemed wildly optimistic. 

Arthur blew out smoke between his teeth. “I suppose… It’s worth lookin’ into.” 

John jumped up from the log he was sitting on, hands clasped together in exaggerated excitement. “Arthur Morgan finally agrees with a plan of mine. Someone _please_ alert the rest of camp-”

“Alright alright, don’t get too full of yourself now.” Arthur chuckled in between John’s dramatics. “We’ll see how it looks, go from there.”

The rest of the day Arthur spent fishing down at the lake, providing a small bit of food for the next few days they’d be spending in camp before they moved. It wasn’t much, but in all fairness, they had enough food to last them months if stored correctly. Arthur had been so focused on providing for the gang that he forgot being an outlaw meant breaking the law. Maybe he needed the stagecoach robbery to set him on course, to get the spirit of the camp back in shape. Things had been so sluggish since the robbery.

He settled into sleep at around midnight after spending another evening smoking with the stars. For that reason, it was jarring when he woke up mere hours later, rough hands gripping his shirt and a gun pointed--

A gun was pointed into his chest.

He grabbed the barrel, shoving forward and sending the person toppling into the dirt as the gun skidded to Arthur’s feet. He knocked the pistol a few inches away, in the opposite direction of the person’s grasping hand. In a few seconds he was cocking his own revolver as he kicked the person on the floor, who winced in pain. 

“You best give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right here, partner.” He kicked the man again until a yelp of pain had him pausing.

“Arthur, you dumbass, it’s me!” John lifted his head from the ground, dirt streaked across his face along with an angry flush in his cheeks. His hair had been tucked under a black wide-brimmed hat-- Arthur _should’ve_ recognized the hat-- and his clothes were the same tattered rags he always wore. 

Arthur holstered his revolver and sat back in his cot, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Jesus Christ, you scared me. What the hell were you thinkin’? No, clearly you wasn’t. You pulled out a gun on me?”

John seemed sheepish, his eyes were always downcast when he was. Dusting off his hat and his clothes and picking up his gun, he exhaled slow. “You weren’t wakin’ up and I… I don’t… Figured it would fit with the robbery…”

“Fit with the robbery.” Arthur repeated, and though he tried to hold it, a loud laugh escaped his lips. It wasn’t amusing, really it wasn’t, but John had always had the strangest ideas and the most unsuccessful plans. In the back of his mind, Arthur wondered if the stagecoach would be a similar stunt, but he shook off his own hesitance with another light chuckle. “You’re the most unusual man I ever met, Marston. Truly.”

“I ain’t… unusual.” John rubbed the back of his neck and opened the entrance of the tent, fixing to leave. He paused before he did, checking some sort of pocket watch in his hand. “I just meant to come in and wake you. We got two hours.”

The next two hours were spent in careful preparation. Arthur cleansed the rifles he hadn’t touched in a week, packed some food and an extra tent, fed and clothed and washed himself. John did the same, albeit with less blatant expertise. Arthur’s motions were that of a trained gunman, someone who had robbed and killed for far too much of his young life, and John’s were those of a younger sibling preparing for a camping trip. The thought made Arthur smile to himself.

When he finally saddled on Boadicea, John on Old Boy, the sun was beaming on them relentlessly. Arthur hated whatever state they were in-- _despised_ it. The heat sent him into a sweat that stained his heavy shirts, soaking through each thread. He was forced to stow his coat about halfway through the ride, to John’s unexplained interest. 

“You keep lookin’ at me.” Arthur decided to comment on it as they neared Metdeer Falls. The road was winding and reddish, climbing through a hilly and heavily forested area that would take them decent time to ride through. Maybe Arthur wanted to comment on John’s staring for that reason-- for something interesting to speak about. Maybe he was just tired of the glances.

John rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed to be a nervous tick of his. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Arthur scoffed. “I’m dumb but I ain’t stupid. I seen the way you keep lookin’ me up and down, Marston. Been doing it since we saddled up back at camp. _Especially_ when I had to take off my coat a few miles back.”

Arthur almost felt bad for laying into him so quickly, and his eyes folded to the trail in front of them instead of John’s expression. Him and his questions, always getting him in trouble. It was no wonder why he’d tried to force them down so many times before, all to ignore the uncomfortable reality of situations. Why couldn’t he just stick to what he knew? Shooting, hunting, fishing, those all had answers. What sort of answer was he forcing out of John?

“I’ll… I guess I just-”

Then, voices up the trail and the sound of wheels stealing the breath from them both. John pulled out his pocket watch and only looked to the numbers for a second before his eyes met Arthur’s, panicked. 

Arthur exhaled slowly and turned his head, taking hold of their surroundings. The road was winding enough, almost akin to a twisting stream, and he was sure it would take the stagecoach a few minutes still to get down to where they stood. Even squinting through the trees to their left, where the trail continued, he couldn’t detect any movement. To their right was a steep drop-off, if he strained his eyes he could make out tumbled rocks at the bottom of the steep, cliff-like pass. His stomach dropped. It’d be a tough escape to survive, if it came down to that. 

“Not really any good cover… not unless we want to fall a few feet.” Arthur muttered, staring down their options carefully. They could try and hide in some shallow woods in front of them, but everything seemed to be covered by skinny, alpine-adjusted trees. Definitely nowhere for the horses, especially Boadicea, with her long legs and sturdy torso.

“Might just have to take ‘em right here.” Arthur whispered as the voices became closer, more clear. John stared at him incredulously.

“In the middle of the road, no place to escape to? What if they have more people than what I heard? What if the take… what if it ain’t even worth the trouble?” John gripped his reins tighter in one hand, glancing down in that shamefaced way of his. “What if you get hurt again?”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. John’s concern was somewhat flattering, though a bit unlike him. Even when he was a child he never batted so much as an eye when Arthur rode into town with his guns blazing, laughing along with Dutch and Hosea at their latest take from whatever rich family they’d decided to rob. In fact, he almost seemed irritated at the way Arthur would come back to camp, perfectly sound and safe, spirits high and a drink in his hand. Now, with an easy enough robbery headed in their direction, John looked at him in what could only be described as distress and confusion, a white-knuckled grip on his reins and his revolver. He seemed scared for his own skin, naturally, but he glanced back as if he were scared for both of them-- possibly to the same extent.

Arthur reached for his own revolver and shifted in his saddle. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a stage, Marston. Not when the whole plan was yours to begin with?”

“I ain’t _scared_. Just don’t think we know what we’re getting into, that’s all.” 

“Well there ain’t no way to scope out what it looks like, so we might as well take ‘em. If what you said is true, and I trust you enough to know it probably is, it’s gon’ be worth the trouble.” 

Arthur wondered if he said the words unconvincingly. He had tried to sound as confident as he could, as the approaching sound of hooves and the chatter of male voices drew closer and closer, but John was inflicting a fire of doubt that settled low in his gut and wouldn’t stray. Even as the wagon came into view from their left, still oblivious to their presence on the road, Arthur pointed the barrel of his revolver down at the dirt in front of him-- as if lifting it any higher would set off the trigger and alert the drivers of their plans. Their plans which had clearly unraveled before their eyes; their plans which were no longer hidden in the slightest. 

“Whatever happens, it ain’t gon’ be pretty.” He whispered to John, almost as a concession to his doubts. It was too late to change their mind on things though, the wagon seemed to be meandering its way around the corner at an easy pace, and Arthur was already working out who to take out first and whether to pause before shooting the drivers or the two lonesome guards at the back end.

Luckily, John didn’t hesitate. As soon as the stagecoach rounded the corner, he shot the two drivers in the chest with a precision that even had the guards pausing. Arthur, on the other hand, cursed under his breath as he watched the horses buck up from their reins, skittishly stopping in the road. The guards, with rifles finally balanced and ammunition locked, pointed straight into John’s chest.

Arthur hardly hesitated before he shot the left guard through the skull. The other, smaller and clearly less experienced, dropped his rifle into the path with shaking hands. Arthur didn’t even feel a twinge of guilt when he pointed his revolver into his chest, shooting him into the loose dirt.

No movement, just breathing as Arthur collected himself, revolver still hot and steady in his arm. John’s eyes were following him, he could feel it, but he didn’t move his head to check. He simply holstered his gun, dismounted from Boadicea. It had been too easy, robbing this stage, especially one holding as much money as this one likely did. Something seemed off, and he knew John felt it when his feet finally hit the dirt and he glanced around the woods carefully.

“Shit. Well.” Arthur sighed and went over to the unsettled horses, taking out his hunting knife to set them free. “Strange how simple that went.”

John nodded in agreement as he went towards the other horse, still glancing about like someone could jump them right there. “I… I knew my lead was good but… Didn’t think they’d only have two guards. Untrained guards at that.”

Arthur cut the dark horse free, patting him on his side as he broke from his shackles. “Go on, get.” 

Soon after the first ran off, the other followed. Arthur then turned his attention to the stagecoach itself, with its menacing black metal walls and the huge steel wheels that had sounded off from so far away. He checked the door which was predictably locked from the outside. He only had to meet John’s eyes once before he was nodding and reaching into his satchel for a stick of dynamite. It was second nature to both, how to treat a stagecoach robbery once the guards were killed and the location seemed clear of other people. Cut the horses, blow open the door, collect the money and flee as quick as your own horse could travel.

The second step was handled by John with ease. He set the stick of dynamite onto the door, lighting the fuse before rushing a few feet away from the explosion. Arthur followed behind him, albeit at a slower pace, and the door blew open to reveal--

Nothing. Arthur went inside, checked every crevice and corner, even checking the guards’ saddlebags and the ceiling of the stagecoach and the floorboards and the wheels and under the coach and the back of the coach-- he checked every single inch again and again until he finally turned to John, eyes alight in barely contained resentment.

“Arthur, I-”

“We’re leavin’. I don’t wanna hear a word.”

They saddled up while the sun was lower in the sky but still bright enough to be considered afternoon. Their pace was a bit faster than the ride there, but even more silent, with only the sounds of wolves calling and a stream running past them to supply their way home. Arthur didn’t feel much like speaking even if he hadn’t told John to keep quiet. He was too annoyed, (though mostly at himself), for believing such a take could be so unguarded to begin with. For wasting a day, a day he could’ve used to help the gang with a more productive task, maybe to go on his own robbery alone. Now they were stuck together on a darkening road miles from camp with both in sour spirits and no money between them.

The closer they trotted to camp the more the road ahead of them narrowed. As the woods became more still and noiseless, almost eerily so, something shifted in the way that Arthur carried himself. He spurred Boadicea to ride a little faster, his hand falling to his revolver without unholstering the weapon. John followed a little ways behind him, urging Old Boy into a light gallop.

“Behind us.” Arthur whispered. “Those two been followin’ us for the last two miles.”

He’d recognized hooves behind them a few miles back in the stretching silence, but he hadn’t regarded them as a threat until they’d grown closer, almost uncomfortably close. From what he could make of the situation, and it wasn’t much considering how far they were from a habited roadway, they had two options. Either they stood their ground, questioned and possibly killed the men, or they kept riding forward with caution. For now, he picked up the pace on Boadicea in an effort to stall his decision. Next to him, John’s hand fell to his weapon as he sped up in kind. 

Almost as if planned, and it surely must have been, men on horses with their weapons drawn descended on them from every angle. Arthur reared his horse, caught in the midst of some misshapen circle, John at his hip. The men in the formation sneered-- none were well-dressed, each was in tattered clothing that barely clung onto skinny frames. Arthur vaguely recognized a few from his questioning back at the town near camp. He’d been slowly dragging information out of some of the people that now stood in front of him, guns impassively pointed at his head.

“Well, let’s see what we got here, shall we? John Marston and Arthur Morgan, is it?”

Arthur turned his head backwards and sideways, trying to catch wind of who was speaking, but the voice seemed to be lilting through the arrangement of men from all corners. Eventually, his eyes made out some movement behind a few of the men in front, and a few parted to reveal the owner of the voice. Smiling with yellowed teeth, he kept a strong left arm on his reins while his right gripped a silver pistol. He didn’t look intelligent in the slightest, with his crooked grin and his sunburnt face, but something told Arthur that his stature was the reason he was the leader of these men. Muscled, tall, broad features-- he was intimidating as he stopped between the two of them, weapon glinting in the fading sunlight.

“Yep. Marston. You’re the one that corrupted my brother, ain’t ya?”

John immediately turned his head to glance around the circle of men. “Corrupted? Not sure what you’re-”

“You know damn well what I’m speakin’ of.” The man bristled, cocking his gun and raising it to John’s skull. Arthur flexed his fingers, aching to reach for his revolver, but knowing he couldn’t. There were too many men around him aching to use their own.

John stood, silent, as the other man began to circle them. “Might as well introduce myself, though I don’t believe it’s gon’ matter much in a few seconds.” He chuckled, yellow teeth flashing. “I’m Cleon Ray, and you, John Marston, fell into one of the traps we got lyin’ around for folk like you. _Sick_ folk like you.” Cleon spat into the dirt, as if just saying the words made him feel ill. 

Arthur looked to John as quick as he could, trying to signal his confusion. John didn’t even glance in his direction. He just stared down at his hands, his body near shaking— whether in anger or humiliation, Arthur wasn’t sure. He turned his eyes back to Cleon, who was now inspecting his weapon with care, deliberately wiping a handkerchief across the trigger. 

“You see, Arthur Morgan, John here seemed to be fond of a business around here that caters to… those seekin’ somethin’ perverted and _wrong_. We saw him sneakin’ around town to meet with men. Had to do somethin’ about it, understand? Pretty nice bounty on his head, that don’t hurt neither.” The men around Cleon sniggered as he drew even closer to John, eyes alight with disgust. “But no, we don’t want your damn bounty. We want you and your kind _gone_. Arthur here, he’ll make for a nice consolation prize. Hell, he probably don’t even mind us killin’ you! Do you now, Morgan?”

Arthur just gave a muddled shake of his head. His mind was spinning, adrenaline and disarray making his thoughts fuzzy and meaningless. Nothing in front of him made sense, the way John was acting didn’t make sense, the men around him and the intimidation and the robbery-- it was all senseless. John hardly left camp, except to scout saloons and drink, but he never seemed to be interested in any men… not exactly. Then again, Arthur had spent so much time away from John the past few years that they felt almost like strangers. It was entirely plausible-- no, likely-- that they carried deeper secrets from each other than either could fathom.

As Arthur kept his head down, Cleon circled them again, snickering under a worn bucket hat. “Well then, guess we got our answer, fellers. Should we start shootin’?”

“Please, you gotta understand, I- I didn’t do nothin’ to your brother, I swear.” John pleaded, voice cracking. A few of the men surrounding them jeered in response, though the voices seemed misty through Arthur’s ears.

“Well ain’t that a lie, now? You came up on him, drunk as anything, now didn’t you? Now, I’ll admit, you was a persistent one. We get folk like you all the time in places like those, though never so _desperate_ as you was. He flirted with you well enough. It was all part of our act, ‘course, he has ‘ta wash his mouth just to clean his tongue of the words he spoke. Twisted men like you, see, they don’t think.” Cleon grit out angrily, pistol coming dangerously close to pushing into John’s side. Arthur nearly reached for his own weapon, fingers outstretched and steady. “Men like you, they _earn_ the devil’s hand. That’s why it was so simple, wasn’t it? Only took a few fake promises just to get you right in this here trap.”

John was completely red in the face, his eyes so low that all he could stare at were his hands. Those hands, which were now shaking wildly, unable to grip onto anything let alone his gun. Arthur exhaled low in his throat. If he was going to get them out of this, and he’d damn well try, he had to come up with something outside of plain gunfire. Shooting ten men at close range was near impossible even without their eyes fixated on every movement he made. He could even feel his hand, which had been leisurely inching toward his revolver, become scrutinized with lethal stares. Clearly he couldn’t fight his way out of the mess in front of him. He needed a distraction, one outside of their fucked attempt at a circle, and he needed it quickly.

He looked to his right, where Cleon continued to press his pistol into John. He seemed to be taking his time, either to revel in the success of their plan or taunt the both of them further. His voice continued to filter in and out of Arthur’s ears, lazy speaking that didn’t reach his head, as he lowered his shoulders and subtly checked for a stick of dynamite in his saddlebag. It had to be an indistinct motion or else he’d distract the rest of the men around them, who were now entranced by John’s palpable distress. Slow, precise, he opened his saddle bag and grazed his fingers over something smooth and cylindrical. Done.

Now for a way to light the fuse. He figured, with a few of the men around him smelling of smoke, lighting a cigarette would be a strange but accepted move on his part. He reached for the matches in his pocket, along with a cigarette, and eyed the men around him. A few glanced over, but they were far too interested in whatever words Cleon was spewing to pay Arthur any attention. Now he just had to light the fuse quickly, without anyone seeing, and throw the stick at the right spot. In front of him, he figured that would be easiest. But would it be more simple to throw the stick behind him, firing quick at the men in front? With still hands, he sparked his match using the sole of his boot and lit the cigarette, inhaling only once before tossing it into the dirt.

“If only we could fix you, Marston, really. We want to fix you, but hell, you too far gone!”

Arthur lowered the lit matchstick into his open saddlebag, meeting the fuse and straightening on his horse.

“You… you don’t know nothin’ about me.”

“We know you’re unnatural, John, and we know this here pistol is gon’ fix that up _real nice_ for us-”

Arthur held onto his reins tight as the explosion sounded from behind him and Boadicea bucked into the air, whinnying in agitation. It was only a second before bullets showered on them, but they paused in seconds. One hand with his revolver, another with his pistol, Arthur shot the few men that blocked their way with dizzying speed. As soon as it was somewhat silent apart from a few anguished cries behind him, he holstered his guns and gripped John by the back of the shirt.

“You okay? I mean, Jesus those men.” Arthur tried not to sound as angry as he felt, though a grit escaped his throat that made John flinch. “We… we need to leave here. Can’t go back to camp neither, not with all them men I killed. We’ll… hide up by Bridgewater. Got some dense forest in those parts.”

John only nodded, though Arthur figured that was the most he could accomplish given his trembling frame. He rode into a smooth canter, John following alongside him as he dodged the fork in the road that would lead them to Dutch’s camp. Dutch, who would surely send someone after them the second daylight hit the next day. Arthur just prayed no one was scouting their location, though he was hopeful considering the look of Cleon’s “gang”-- if he could even call them that. They seemed to be no more than a few loose vagrants, hellbent on destroying something that didn’t perfectly align with their tangled morals. 

Arthur had few morals, but he stuck to them with the strength of a loaded shotgun. He protected that which he considered family, dismantled anything that threatened the lives of those people. The smaller things like robbing and killing and torturing and looting, it was all centered around those he needed to defend. John, who was still barely an adult himself, was one of the few Arthur would lay down his life for-- unquestioning. If it had come down to that final sacrifice with Cleon’s men, he would’ve.

Thankfully it hadn’t, and Arthur found his chest tightening as he glanced beside him. John was shaken, hair fallen loose from his hat, eyes dark and untamed. He’d been nearly shot, stripped of all his secrets, laid open entirely for Arthur to see and all he could do was stare. He wasn’t one for words, he never was, but which ones could adequately describe the guilt that now cycled through him? Head floating, he wondered if he should’ve cursed out Cleon’s men there if only to rid himself of the feelings of stinging fury that kept asking, over and over:

_Did you do enough for him?_


	2. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for some porn at the beginning of this chapter :)

The sky was shrouded in darkness when Arthur finally found a decent place to camp. Well hidden by tall pines and cornered by a rushing stream, the area was slightly damp, though they were still able to collect enough dry wood to start a small fire. With the sound of screaming crickets and flowing water beside him, Arthur pitched their tent in seconds. John simply sat by the fire, a thick blanket surrounding himself despite the humidity that clung inside every breath they took. The air was dense this deep into the woods, where the ground sucked every drop of moisture from the sky and refused to budge. 

Arthur hated the stiff air around them, he hated how restrictive it felt. It wasn’t only the camp that was restrictive though, everything around him felt confined-- the way John turned away from his eyes, the firm trees that surrounded them, the unspoken words that lay between them. He closed his eyes, breathed slow, tried not to focus on how compressed he felt. Tried to focus on helping John, because he was the one with the blank stare on his face, the one who hadn’t spoken a word since they escaped Cleon’s men. It must’ve been hours ago when it happened and Arthur had hardly spoken either, except for the few words of direction he’d provided on their way there. Somehow, “over here” and “this way” hadn’t done much to strike a decent conversation between them.

He finally sat down at the fire, pulling a few cans from his satchel. “Here. Somethin’ I brought along just in case.”

“Don’t want nothin’ to eat.” John murmured, barely audible. He shuffled deeper into his blanket, burying his head inside like he could hide away from where he was and what was happening. Arthur only sighed and tugged on one of the corners. 

“Gotta talk to me at some point, Marston. I ain’t forgettin’ what happened down there. Neither is you.” Arthur pulled at the blanket until John’s right eye peeked out, red and puffed and wet. He drew back his hand in surprise before John jerked the blanket back and covered his face once more.

Arthur had never seen John cry before. He was always angry and wild, his emotions filtering through him swiftly, but he never gave way to sadness. He tucked it deep inside, as Arthur did, not letting anyone see for fear of being viewed as weak. Drinking, that seemed to be the gang’s solution to the trauma that followed each of their pasts. Deaths in Dutch’s gang were mourned with bottles of hard liquor and discomforting silence. It was easier to be angry and drunk than sober and miserable.

Arthur reached into his satchel once more. “Smoke, then? Got a drink in here too, I bet.”

That garnered John’s attention. He lifted his head from the blanket, nodding weakly. A stray tear found its way down his cheek, stilling at his jaw before dropping into his chest. As Arthur lifted a cigarette to John’s lips and lit the match, he found himself wanting to wipe that tear from his face.

“There. Better?”

John nodded as he breathed in the smoke, exhaling through his nose and meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Thank you.”

As he smoked, Arthur rummaged through his satchel again and took out a half-opened bottle of whiskey. He set it between them, though John didn’t seem interested. He only stared ahead, another tear straying from his dim eyes, passing down his nose gently. He rubbed away at the tear and took another drag from his cigarette.

“Those men-- you recognize them?” Arthur asked, voice as tender as he could manage. He needed to understand more of what had happened, he wanted to piece together what didn’t already make sense in his mind. Not much did, though that wasn’t surprising. He’d been trying to work things over since they escaped those men and more questions came than answers. 

“Didn’t know them, no. Knew who they was talkin’ about, though.” John shuddered, took in another breath of smoke. “The leader, Cleon. His brother… I came onto him.”

“You… you did?”

John laughed humorlessly. “What, you didn’t see how they were mocking me? Right handsome feller he was and I… I hadn’t been caught much between the law and the rest of the gang. Felt comfortable, that place. It was made for men like me. While we was there he gave me the tip for the coach in between... other things he was sayin’.”

Arthur stared into his hands. “You know all that don’t change my mind on you, John. Nothin’ will. You’re my brother.”

Again, John chuckled, though most of the sound was hidden around a mouthful of smoke. “‘Course you is. Nothing will change that. Trust me, I know.”

Arthur scratched his neck, trying to make sense of the bitter tone John spoke with. He seemed irritated, though maybe he was only tired. They’d been riding since noon, both had danced with death and quite possibly the devil himself in the form of one Cleon Ray. They both needed sleep, and with the fog-ridden forest around them and only one tent to share, it wouldn’t come easy. 

“I’m… I’m gon’ try and sleep some. You come inside when you want to.” Arthur said, stretching and standing from the ground. As he disappeared into the tent and closed the entrance, he felt sorrowful brown eyes follow his figure.

______

Arthur woke from a light sleep minutes later, though it felt like hours with the groggy heat surrounding him. John stumbled in, face flushed red in the dark, and sat on the tent’s floor with a wide grin.

“You cheered right up, didn’t you?” Arthur muttered into the darkness, barely able to make sense of John’s features. The only light came from the dying fire outside, though it seemed to be almost enough. John’s eyes flashed, cheeks reddened, as he lifted up a finished bottle of whiskey.

“Jesus, John. Doesn’t take much to get you gone, does it?” Arthur sat up from the ground so that he was face to face with him, staring down in concern. John leaned closer, laughing in a muted way that heated Arthur’s face and made his stomach jump.

That’s when John moved a hand to Arthur’s cheek. His hand was warm, rough, and Arthur felt himself lean into the touch without thought. “I… I always been starin’ at you… always you… _Arthurrrr Morgannn_. You know that? I been watching you… for years… and now I got you right here with me.”

“John.” Arthur gripped the hand that was at his cheek, voice hoarse. “You don’t want this.”

“But I do.” John whispered back, eyes watering. “Please… know I been beggin’... Just wanna feel you…”

There was a silence as Arthur’s heart pounded, only a moment where he tried to think of ways to push John away-- to set things back to the way they’d always been. There were hundreds of ways to reject him, to send him back outside with words or to push his hand away with a touch, but only one way to accept him in. 

Arthur set his lips onto John and let him come rushing in, flowing like the stream next to them, thick as the air that surrounded them.

John gasped into the kiss like he’d only just started breathing, and he pulled away after only a minute to grip onto Arthur’s shirt, hands shaking. Even the alcohol hadn’t calmed his nerves, and Arthur took his hands loosely, kissing each knuckle as he stared into John’s glazed eyes. Those innocent, pretty eyes that he’d always taken far too much interest in. Those eyes that were now turning black as he pushed Arthur into the ground, kissing him with a hunger that had both grasping at clothes and breathing shallow through their nose. 

John pulled away first, unbuttoning his shirt with messy fingers as Arthur dug his nails into his hips. “You… God… I got you, I did…”

Leaning up to nuzzle John’s neck, Arthur felt something in him melt with how easy it felt-- John flushed and warm sitting over him as he uttered drunken nonsense. He sunk his teeth in, lips tracing over salty skin, and John hissed and opened his neck even further.

“Arthur, please.” John whined as he bit even deeper, tracing his marks with his tongue, kissing back up his jaw to capture his lips. He wanted to worship every inch of him, leave him marked and begging, have his legs wrapped around him as he laid into him with everything he had. His mind wasn’t foggy with lust, it was clear with the feel and the touch of a single person.

He flipped him around, fingers flying across his own shirt as John unbuckled his belt and shimmied from his jeans. His drawers followed soon after, and Arthur was left shirtless in front of a completely bare John Marston.

“Well… Goddamn.” Arthur muttered, hands feeling up his sides. The skin there was smooth and dry despite the heat. A few scars were sprinkled from his shoulder to his hip, marks that he leaned down to kiss with a mild brush of his lips.

John arched into the contact, hands finding their way to Arthur’s scalp as he breathed slow. With each inch lower he dipped the more John bucked into his lips, until Arthur finally pressed a firm hand into his chest and pushed down.

“Stay.” He nearly growled, and as soon as John nodded, he turned his attention to the neglected areas of his body.

John was on the longer side, though still not as lengthy as Arthur was. As he reached between them, he realized how foriegn the angle was, how he hardly held himself in this way-- let alone another person. Hand stilling, he hesitated, though he could feel the heat radiating from John’s flesh.

“It’s okay… Arthur, _please_.” John begged, teeth biting into his hand. “I need it… been wantin’ you for so long.”

“You have? How long? How long you want me for?” Arthur smirked into the darkness, hand still held a few taunting inches above John’s dick. 

John squirmed, trying to create friction where there was none. “Can’t even remember… Since I met you, I reckon.”

“Must’a thought I was real handsome then, hm?” Arthur pressed a finger onto his cock for only a second before pulling away, chuckling as John cursed and withered with the touch. “That’s it, see. You’re mine, ain’t you?”

Without an ounce of hesitation, John nodded. “Only you, long as you want me. Promise.”

Arthur grasped onto him at the base and watched John’s face contort as he let out a harsh breath, eyes shutting. He adjusted the angle, bringing himself closer to him as he twisted his hand upwards, letting his thumb lightly swipe over the head. John only let out a pathetic noise, thrusting into Arthur’s hand, a sheen of sweat appearing across his reddened face.

“Yeah… You been desperate.” Arthur mumbled, almost absentmindedly, as he watched John fall apart under his grip. 

Maybe deep down, he’d known this is what John wanted, and maybe all those years he’d spent trying to convince himself of anything otherwise was just fear-- a foolish fear of change and everything that came along with it. He realized, as he leaned over to capture John’s lips in a mangled mess of teeth and tongue, that he’d been as desperate for this kind of contact as he was. Perhaps not in the same way, where he felt the need to sneak around when the air turned cold and the sky darkened, but unknowing, with his head leaned against the dirt and a cigarette to his lips. All those moments with him unthinking as he stared into the stars were his own moments of being lost.

He found his hand stilling, though he still gripped John firmly. His head was clearer than it had been in months, everything piecing together effortlessly. All that he needed from this world was John, his hand on his bicep, his lips parted in a whimper that would grow louder when he finally moved his limbs, drawing any sound he wanted with a pull of his wrist.

“Got lucky with me, didn’t you? I can work you in any way, you ain’t gon’ complain.” Arthur chuckled, loosening his hand and tugging upward, watching as John heaved and turned his head to the side.

“Arthur… So damn close.”

“You know you gon’ have to beg for it.” He grinned wickedly, hand stilling for the second time. “Tell me how bad.”

“I need it, please.” John whispered, moving his hand from Arthur’s bicep to the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss him dirty. He turned away, panting, eyes watering at the corners. “You know how bad I wanted you… You must’a known… You know…”

Arthur pulled at him twice before he was coming across his stomach, abdomen tensing, hips lifting off the ground. It was a sight-- John’s hair covering half his face, lips parted as curses spilled from his throat. When Arthur had seemingly finished him fully, he wiped his hand on his jeans and sat on his knees, uncomfortably hard and unsure of himself.

John’s eyes were half-lidded, but he approached Arthur’s jeans with warm enthusiasm. Hands still shaking, (it seems they hadn’t stopped shaking from the second they left Dutch’s camp), he unclasped Arthur’s belt and pushed down his jeans.

“I… You don’t have to. It’s alright.” Arthur swept John’s hair back with a shy touch. “You need some sleep.”

But John shook his head, determined. “I’m gon’ suck you off, Morgan.”

“Now, you ain’t gotta--” But John was already pulling down his drawers and releasing him, eyes taking in his length with an apprehensive stare.

“You… shit.” John rubbed a hand across his face before he lifted his eyes to meet Arthur’s dick once more. “Not sure I can even take you.”

Something in Arthur’s gut twinged at the sentence, his arousal deepening even further. He had always had stamina, it was something he prided himself in, but John was testing his ability to hold off. The situation was too foriegn, too compressed, and he felt his lucid thoughts turn into clouded lust.

He moved a hand to the back of John’s head as he cleared his throat. “You can take it. Can’t you?” He pushed John’s face closer to his dick, breathing becoming more staggered, head pounding. “C’mon, you can.”

John rubbed the side of his face on Arthur before taking him into his mouth, slow and relaxed, eyes shutting. As soon as he did Arthur was pushing forward, leisurely at first, only thrusting at an easy pace. As his lower gut heated he pushed even more, now clutching John’s hair, in and out until John was coughing up spit and catching his breath at Arthur’s hip.

“Jesus, God.” John gasped, looking up at Arthur with wide eyes. “How the hell do other folk… Do they…?”

“They don’t.” He said simply, running a hand through his hair. “Not once they see me, that is. Too much of a handful…”

“More like two.” John sighed, latching a hand to Arthur’s base. There was still an entire half foot in front of him even with the hand, it seemed. He wasn’t sure how his throat hadn’t given way sooner.

“But you… you can handle me, can’t you?” Arthur pinched John’s chin with his fingers, lifting his face so that their eyes met. “You can help me, hm?”

John set his focus back onto his task, the one that was sending Arthur closer and closer to the edge with each swipe of his tongue. He took him into his mouth quicker this time, which had Arthur’s hand tightening into his hair as he groaned, teeth gnawing into his lips. The pressure he was feeling meant that he was going to release soon, and he hardly had any control over it. The lack of focus, the loss of control, all of it felt freeing as John held him in his mouth and stared up at him with hazy eyes.

He went even further, Arthur could barely breathe with the sensation, and it was only a moment before his body tensed and his hips snapped-- spending himself in John’s throat. He coughed, mouth still latched onto him, but Arthur held his head still as his vision blurred and his heartbeat slowed. 

“Take it… take it all.” He muttered, not letting go of John’s head until he felt himself soften. When he did, he pulled out and watched as John retched into the ground, catching his breath with shuddered shoulders and gasping puffs of air.

As he collected himself, Arthur zipped up his jeans and searched for his shirt, throwing it over his shoulders before he sighed and fell into the bedroll under him. John was trembling, but he eventually found his way to his own clothes, and he crawled into Arthur’s space. Both fell asleep in mere seconds.

______

Arthur woke up groggy and far too warm. It had to be later in the afternoon considering how hot it had become in the tent, and the heated body clasped onto his chest certainly didn’t help matters. He exhaled heavily, shifting a bit to lie on his side, trying to find a less suffocating position.

John’s face continued to press into his abdomen, smushed into his shirt as light snores escaped his lips. He was pretty like this, with the streaming sun highlighting his dark brown locks and turning them chestnut, while his nose scrunched every few seconds with slumbering thoughts. 

He wasn’t sure where they would be after what happened last night, especially with how they’d act around camp. Nothing could go back to how it was, that Arthur knew with a burning certainty. Both had been awoken to something that wouldn’t leave without budging, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to. John was pliant, accessible, familiar. Even if it had only been drunken affection, he seemed infatuated, and that alone set Arthur’s blood pumping quick through his veins.

With a still hand, he brought his fingers to chestnut locks and scraped, down to the scalp, in gentle circular motions. Above him John shivered, eyes fluttering open. 

“There you are.” Arthur hadn’t even meant to say it, let alone so softly, but the words escaped his lips and hung in the stale air between them. “How you feelin’?”

John’s eyes were suddenly wild. He sat up with his arms, hand immediately finding his head, before he looked down to the hardly-buttoned red shirt on his body. Arthur sat up on the heels of his hands, an uneasy feeling settling low in his gut. It was strange, how anxiety elicited a similar reaction from him as the deep-seated arousal he experienced last night.

In front of him, John was rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, seemingly trying to collect himself with a newly-sober mind. “Shit. Fuck. Why the fuck did I… I wasn’t thinkin’, was I?” His breathing sped up before he was crawling out of the tent, arms crossed around himself as he paced.

Arthur watched him the entire time, feeling more helpless than when they’d been surrounded by ten men with loaded shotguns. At least then he’d been able to fight out of it with a mostly-clear conscience-- what was in front of him made him feel a guilt that spread throughout his entire body and left him motionless. All he could do was watch John pace, back and forth, over and over and over across their camp.

Suddenly, John came at a standstill in front of the opening of the tent. Bending to one knee, he stared at Arthur through dark lashes. “Why? The whole thing happening… I mean, it makes sense for me… but why did you…?”

“Does it matter? Already happened, didn’t it?” Arthur shot back, though he wasn’t sure why he’d let the entire thing happen either. He could’ve easily pushed John away, the opportunity was directly in front of him, but he hadn’t. He’d let him come rushing in swift and fierce, and he pushed back with just as much enthusiasm, if not more. 

At the entrance of the tent, John let a tremor run through him. “You said… I remember somethin’ you said. Last night.”

Leaning back on his elbows, Arthur sighed. “And what’s that?”

“You asked if I was for you.” John swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. “And I… I know I must’a said yes. Everythin’s a little misty, but… I know myself.”

As he glanced into the ground Arthur’s heart jumped. He remembered asking the words, but they’d been so spur-of-the-moment that he hadn’t considered the implications. All he knew was that he liked being over John, teasing moans out of him with only his hands, helping him finish to completion. Those words he spoke were all just quick-mouthed additions, said from a more physical side of him-- the side of him that was instinctive, the one that had brought them together to begin with.

Silence unfolded as Arthur rose to his feet, exhaling sharply. It was too late in the afternoon to worry about what had happened, not when Dutch was probably sending people after them as they spoke. As he exited the tent, taking his bedroll with him, John stared up at him with a forceful fury that didn’t stray. Even as Arthur stretched and rolled his head up to the sky impatiently, John’s eyes never left him, and the intensity in them never dampened.

“You have nothin’ to say to that?” His tone was angry, relentless. “I don’t know why… Jesus… Can’t believe I expected anything more from you, Morgan. Shit.”

“Now, you don’t get to blame this on me. You was-- you was the one who drank all the whiskey and came up on me--”

“Oh, so it’s all _my_ fault now?”

“It ain’t like that, I just know that I weren’t the one who _started_ the entire thing. And… and you enjoyed it, John, you--”

John laughed, bitter and low in his throat. “So I’m the one who enjoyed it. Not you?”

“Now you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Jesus, Arthur, you ain’t gotta lie to me like that. Y’know, I wish… I wish it never happened. I do. Wouldn’t be stuck here arguin’ like we used to as kids.”

Arthur’s head snapped at that, his insides sinking. “You don’t mean that. You was the one who came in--”

“Yeah, . I wasn’t thinkin’ and neither was you.” There was finality to the way he said the words, teeth grit in frustration. “Think it’s best if we forget about it. That’s all.”

Something in Arthur wanted to protest what John said, but he twisted his head and turned to take down the tent instead. John was the one who had the final say in the entire matter, he figured, since he was the one who broke into his space and put a hand to his cheek, eyes blank and desire-driven. If he wanted to forget about his intoxicated actions to the best of his ability, Arthur had no right to argue with it. He’d succumb to that wish. 

They packed up, both eating from a few closed cans they had stored in their respective satchels. With all that had happened, Arthur had forgotten about the gnawing hunger that had made his movement lethargic and his eyelids heavy. Between the stagecoach and Cleon’s men, adrenaline had supplied his energy where consuming food didn’t.

John loaded his things beside him, albeit at a flat pace, as if moving his limbs pained him. Granted, it wasn’t hard to imagine that was the case, considering how far he’d exerted himself last night. As he swallowed his food, Arthur could hear him deliberately clear his throat. He had to have been sore, there and everywhere else.

When they finally tossed their cans and kicked the last flickering embers of the campfire, everything was packed and set. Arthur hardly remembered their way out of the forest with all that had happened, but he could follow their old trail well enough. They’d get back on solid road, make their way home and greet Dutch. Explain that the whole thing went sideways, they were tracked by some drifters who were after the same stage, they had to hide out for a bit. Everything else would stay guarded, just as John wanted it to. 

Even if he did want to bring it up, Arthur wasn’t sure how he’d manage to go about it. Did it even matter who they shared sheets with? It never mattered much to him, but maybe Dutch and Hosea were different. If John’s survival teetered on a secret, he would take those words to the grave.

They mounted their horses, Arthur riding out ahead as John followed several paces behind him.

______

Arthur reached camp in less than an hour. As soon as they arrived, a flurry of attention was brought to them. Miss. Grimshaw approached, hands above her head, likely beginning another one of her fierce sermons over the value of staying in camp to help some. Then there was Hosea, peeking out from his tent, teeth bared in something between a grimace and a full grin. Of course, Dutch came after, hands settled at his waist as he looked them over.

“Well, you boys certainly been gone a while. I had to send Bill out lookin’ for you! He was not pleased.”

Dismounting, Arthur squeezed Dutch’s shoulder with a slight harshness. “Look here, we came back in one piece. That alone is more than we can say for that robbery we took a week ago--”

“It had a good lead.” Dutch hissed, turning slightly red before inhaling slow, collecting himself. “Though I am glad to see you boys back. What _happened_ out there?”

Arthur turned back to look at John, who shrugged, a practiced motion that he recognized with ease. “Nothin’. Just… a bad lead. Then we got caught up with some bad folk, we didn’t wanna risk coming back to camp and leadin’ them here. That’s it.”

Dutch’s eyebrow was raised, but he seemed convinced. “Well then. Glad you came back okay.”

Beside him, Miss. Grimshaw scoffed. “Leavin’ like that, just as we’re about to uproot this damn camp again! Foolish boys, always gettin’ themselves in trouble…”

As she turned away to follow Dutch, Arthur chuckled behind his hand. He tried to hide the noise, really he did, but the laugh had already fallen into open air before he was able to stop it. Behind him, John snorted into his hand as well.

They met eyes, if only for a second, smiles stilling and eyes searching. That’s when Arthur realized, with a striking heart, how simple it would be to capture John’s lips right then. In front of everyone.

He shook his head, turned away, and set off to his tent. It was no use considering something that would never happen again.

______

It was a full week. An entire week where they prepared to move, finishing up their last few tasks before wiping out their mark in that area, and Arthur hadn’t stopped thinking about him for a second.

John invaded his mind inside and outside of camp, flashing images of the night they shared crept into his thoughts at every word he spoke and every movement he made. He winced with each thought, at times so visibly that other members of the camp seemed concerned. They called him skittish and standoffish and Arthur had no right to argue otherwise. He knew that he had been, but there was no way to fix it. He craved John like any other vice of his-- the feel of a pistol in his palm or the burning of liquor in his throat. Only this time, the vice stood in front of him and smiled and laughed and spoke in a way that had Arthur’s head spinning with vague memories of a humid tent and lips that tasted of whiskey.

He was brutally aware of the irony. John’s pining had taken hold of him and now he was the one that wasn’t able to look away when he entered camp, hair tied up behind his head and a relaxed grin set on his face. That was the other thing-- his goddamn looks. Had John always been so effortlessly attractive, or did he only begin to notice that night, towering over him? Either way, it didn’t seem to matter. He hardly glanced back, even when they were near each other.

For that reason, Arthur found himself by the lake night after night, smoking and staring into the sky intensely. It was like he had done before, except this time with renewed vigor. Finally, he had something to work at in his head, something to set his heart racing as he moved his thoughts around over and over. His hands on John’s body, his lips on his, his teeth at his neck-- those were the things that consumed his mind. When those failed, he pondered the ways that John had hinted at things, the subtle clues that he left for Arthur to pick up-- pieces to a puzzle that had fallen through his fingers like water each time. He thought of John’s voice, so strained and raspy, calling his name in every emotion he could remember from him. Pain, joy, fear, passion.

In the back of his mind, he wondered why John made him so contemplative. Complicated things like their time in the tent would have normally slipped his mind in seconds. Now it stuck in his head for hours and hours, unable to shift from his attention.

It only took a week for Arthur to realize that he was completely infatuated with John.

But by that time, John seemed relaxed considering all that had happened to him. His eyes seemed brighter, his voice had a more hopeful note, despite still acting fairly concerned with the nearby town. That was the one of the hundreds of things Arthur had noticed about him that past week-- he stuck around camp like a bad stain, never stepping into that old town once. He only ever left camp at all with Hosea to fish some, and even then it was only for a few hours at the most. Strange, since John normally despised fishing. When Arthur took him as a child he complained on the ride there, on the boat out in the lake, and on the ride back. The silent lull as he waited for the tugging line-- it did nothing to tame his restless eyes or his fidgeting hands. Arthur recalled sternly lecturing him on the way back, something about _patience_ and _restraint_ as if he had any of that himself.

It was entirely possible John’s tastes had changed and he hadn’t paid enough attention before then to notice. Arthur had been sticking around the camp a lot more himself, and his newly established feelings for John were twisting his attention to all matters related to him.

That was why he wasn’t shocked when, the day they were bound for the next camping grounds, Dutch stopped him in his tracks with a strong hand. “The new camp, it’ll do you good.” He said, looking Arthur up and down with an apprehensive stare. “You been distracted, son. You need a change. It’s some beautiful country up north.”

They left early, sun barely peeking over the horizon. It was a shorter trip, Dutch assured them of that, hardly a day if they limited their stops. Arthur didn’t particularly care for the ride or its length or his proximity to John and Hosea, who were once again talking. Had they ever been that close? Did something change in the past few months-- had he been too blind to notice it? Perhaps they were always that close, John with his tense spirit and Hosea with his calm words. Arthur had neglected the nuances of his family for too long, it seemed, and John was pulling him six feet underwater with guilt.

They carried on half the day without much stopping before John found his way into a different wagon. More specifically, the one Arthur was directing. He hadn’t noticed until he felt the seat next to him dip, and his head spun to where John was sprawled out, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The tell for his nerves.

Arthur straightened in his seat and pushed his hair back, attempting to present himself in a better way before he turned to look at John a second time. “I see you moved.”

His preening hadn’t worked, clearly, as John turned his head and shrugged. Quiet. Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected or what he gained from moving next to him, except for stubborn silence and the occasional jolt in the road when Arthur neglected to watch the caravan ahead of him. He settled back into his natural posture, eyes finding their way back to the rocky path in front of him.

A few minutes later, John sighed. “Got a smoke?”

Arthur reached into his satchel and produced a box of cigarettes and matches without hesitation. John nodded his thanks, struck the match, lit the cigarette and brought it to his lips.

More minutes of silence. It stretched on and on until John threw the cigarette out into the dirt, leant into Arthur, and looked around them carefully. Too surprised to move or breathe much, Arthur kept himself facing forward. It was the first time they’d been as close to each other as that night a week ago, mouth and teeth and skin connecting and culminating in the mess that had left him confused and weary. But there on that wagon John’s skin was on his again and it took everything in him not to melt into the way his cheek scraped his shoulder.

“I think…” John whispered, leaning up to his ear carefully, “I think I want you again.”

Arthur kept his eyes on the caravan. “That so?”

He hoped the desperation hadn’t leaked through, though he could tell it had. A smile was already spilling forward, hardly hidden by the way he cleared his throat and shifted his body. It was deliberate, careful. John would see through it.

“I been talkin’ to Hosea. ‘Bout bein’... interested in someone.” He had leaned away from Arthur’s ear, now settling into the seat next to him, albeit much closer. His voice was still soft, careful. It wasn’t like anyone could hear them above the rumbling wheels, even with a louder tone. “He keeps tellin’ me that I should… that if I really like the person, I’ll know. I mean, hell. I been watchin’ you for ‘bout five years now, guess I should be happy, shouldn’t I?”

Not one for emotional wisdom, Arthur shrugged. “I ain’t sure.”

“‘Course you ain’t.” John scoffed, leaning his head back to look into the sky. It was approaching evening, and judging by the bitter pines and the coarse mountains, they were close to their new camp. 

“I do know this.” Arthur spoke lowly, eyes following the same piece of sky as John. “I know I been feelin’ all the ways you felt. I know… I know I ain’t good at this neither. But I do know that I don’t want you to regret none of what happened that night. And If… if you don’t want me, I understand. I ain’t anyone’s idea of a good partner.”

“That ain’t true.” John muttered. Arthur looked to his side, where heavy brown eyes watched him closely. Too close. 

“I could kiss you right here, I reckon.” Arthur whispered, tongue flitting out to wet his lips. Just the idea made his chest thump. 

John shook his head, leaning back in his seat. “Don’t you get started with me, pretty boy.”

Arthur laughed harshly, head thrown back. With a smile set on his face and his mind finally at ease, a purple sky stared back down at him.

______

The new camp was tucked in the corner of a burly mountain, with enough foliage to keep them good and hidden but a bit too much altitude for most. It wasn’t as ideal as Dutch raved about, considering the trek upwards almost cost the gang a few horses and a broken wagon. A speech with promises of a better camp was spoken that night, with a few groans from the rest of the gang, but no large retaliation.

Arthur didn’t mind the camp so much. A few of the pines were bare enough to sleep under while still watching the stars, which is where he brought his bedroll after drinking a bit with everyone else. A game of poker started, but he was able to dodge it before Hosea robbed him of all he was worth. He never got quite as good at reading others as he was. A con-man of the highest caliber, if there was ever such a thing.

Under the stars, Arthur wasn’t surprised when he was near drifting off and a warm body made its way to lay next to him. He simply opened his arm, allowing John to curl in close, before untying his hair and running a hand through the locks.

“You stayin’ with me, Marston?”

“I suppose I am.”

Arthur grinned before leaning over, pressing his lips to his forehead. “Thank you.”

They laid there below the stars, just holding each other and breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friend who shall not be named for getting me to post this! You're the worst and I'm in red dead hell right now.
> 
> Just a small thing, but I know that Arthur can't shoot a bow at the beginning of the game... I don't know how I managed to forget THAT tutorial mission, considering how cute Charles is in it. Anyway, let's ignore that and pretend that Arthur knew how to shoot a bow and just acted like he couldn't because he had a crush on Charles. For the sake of my ego and my story.


End file.
